


She Left Before You Woke

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, But I figured I'd Tag it Anyway, Everything Hurts, F/M, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, No happy endings, Pairing is Almost Nonexistent, Post-Resist Ending, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 16:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15198632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: In the world they’ve made, the world they fought and killed and bled for, you either die young or you live to wish you had.





	She Left Before You Woke

**Author's Note:**

> _Just a little something that flittered into my mind, set up fortifications, and held me at gunpoint until I agreed to write it between chapters of_ Write Your Words on My Skin's _sequel. So._

Of all the ways Grace Armstrong has ever expected to die, being murdered by Peggies _after_ the world has ended has never been something she’s considered.

Now, though, it’s looking like that’s the way it’ll go.

Her head is swimming from the Bliss bullets – and _how_ the crazy bastards even have any of that shit left after all they’d destroyed before the Collapse is anyone’s guess – and the ropes tying her to an old metal chair are the only thing keeping her from meeting her inevitable death in a heap on the floor.

She wishes she could muster some anger. Wishes she could meet her end with defiance, with her head held high and Peggie corpses at her feet. Wishes she could’ve gone out fighting, on her feet with a gun hand when they’d come for her and Jess, or, hell, back when they’d actually thought they’d _won_ , before the world had exploded into fire and ash and madness. Anything but this – throat cut while she’s tied up and helpless like so much livestock, worn down and too tired to do more than _regret_.

She has so many regrets. 

She just wishes Jess wasn’t going to be her latest.

She wishes she could have saved just one person.

She wishes that Joseph _fucking_ Seed, out of everyone who’s died, wasn’t one of the few people to survive the Collapse.

But if wishes were horses, and all that. Right now the only thing she should probably be wishing for is a quick death, but something in the eyes of the Peggies they’ve been handed over to – an utterly unimpressive looking group who seem to be trying to make up for John’s loss – that tells her that death won’t be coming any time soon – if they’re lucky enough for it to come at all.

The one that _seems_ to be in charge – ironically the least impressive of the bunch – is rambling on and on in the usual way, atonement this and sins that and salvation through pain and all the usual cult shit, and if it weren’t for Jess’ presence Grace would probably _laugh_ at how hard they’re trying and how badly they’re failing. She kind of wants to anyway, just on the off chance that the mockery will make the little cluster of idiots lose their tempers and accidentally kill their prisoners.

Frankly, it’d probably be the best possible outcome for the two of them.

She’s trying to work up some saliva, get her tongue moving and throat working again, trying to think up the best possible way to cut their torture short, when one of the Peggie’s catches sight of something, eyes bulging and mouth falling open in shock and _reverence_ , the jagged knife in his hands falling with a clatter as he drops to his knees and sighs out, “ _Mother._ ”

Jess, secured to a chair several feet away, is staring at the entrance of the “confessional,” her eyes wide with utter disbelief and horror. Then, her entire body _convulsing_ violently, she makes some sort of low, _agonized_ sound from behind her gag – the Peggies had quickly gotten tired of her curses and bites – like the torture’s already begun.

Grace turns her own gaze to the door, staring blankly at the stranger who’s walked into the room to the Peggies’ reverent awe and Jess’ agony. She stares and stares, and the Bliss must have hit her worse than she thought because she just can’t make her brain _work_ , can’t make sense of the image before her – the long, soft material of the demure blue dress; the actual flowers, something that she can scarcely believe still exists in the post-nuclear world, braided into long hair; the way she’s _clean_ , from the crown of her head to the soles of her bare feet, in a way that people just _aren’t_ anymore, even with the _heavily_ swollen stomach rationalizing a higher standard of care. The woman in front of them just doesn’t look _real_ , doesn’t look _possible_ in the world they’ve found themselves in. She looks like a fairytale come to life, like someone who’s stepped out of some pre-Collapse film or children’s storybook or something. She looks – 

She’s _looking_ at Grace, big green eyes wide with shock and _delight_ as soft, lily white hands fly up over her mouth and a trembling, gasped laugh escapes her. “Grace?”

The voice is uncannily familiar, something that tugs at her memories and her heart, that makes tears burn behind her eyes, but the _tone_ … the tone is _wrong_. Deeply, impossibly, fundamentally _wrong_ to such an extent that she thinks she may actually be ill. Because that voice is not _supposed_ to sound like that – breathy and soft, almost shy, almost _childlike_ in a way that makes her skin crawl and turns her stomach. It’s a _pretty_ tone, like gentle breezes and little white flowers and butterflies, not the twanging, teasing, raucous one Grace knows, _feels_ it should be, roaring out over a battlefield or drawling sardonically in a makeshift barracks.

She can’t _process_ what she’s hearing, what she’s _seeing_ , the disconnect between the voice and the tone, the pretty gilding over familiar features. All she can do is stare, confused, as the stranger starts moving towards her, the surrounding Peggies gasping out little prayers of adoration and reverence, a couple of them daring to reach out and brush their fingers against the hem of the dress or a sleeve – the way they react to _Joseph_ – as she comes to a stop in front of Grace, trembling and leaning down to stare into her eyes, delicate hands coming up to lovingly cup her face, and Grace can’t help but stare at the impossibly familiar form that _can’t exist_ anymore.

And yet… 

She stares at the old scar across the bridge of a once broken nose, now faded almost to nothingness, just like the one splitting her left eyebrow and the countless other– familiar marks left by bullets and arrows and fangs and claws, and a swath of unfamiliar paper thin lines that cross over slender wrists – scattered over her face and body. She stares as skin that’s still covered with freckles, only lighter now; hell, everything is lighter except the hair, which has darkened from a brilliant, flame like scarlet to a deep crimson. She stares at skin that’s still perfectly smooth, hands baby soft and devoid of calluses, face eerily flawless from the lack of sun, making her look younger than the twenty-nine years Grace _knows_ her to be.

She can still hear Jess sobbing, _screaming_ into her gag, but she barely processes that. All she can do is stare at… “Robin?”

“Grace!” The Deputy – _not_ the Deputy she knows, it’s _not_ Robin, it _can’t_ be, Robin’s _dead_ – smiles at her; a beautiful, perfect smile that lights up her face and so utterly _wrong_ – it should be lopsided, crooked, the left corner twitching up far higher than the right – that the soldier has to fight down another surge of nausea. “Oh,” soft fingers run over her skin, almost frantically, like their owner has to be assured of her tangibility “oh it’s you! It’s really _you!_ ” There’s tears in the younger woman’s eyes, the uncanny voice soaring upwards in pure _joy_. “When I heard that…” The petting on her face stutters for a moment, the hands trembling lightly and rapturous expression falling slightly, “Oh, Grace… I prayed for so long and… and I didn’t really think…” the tremble becomes a shake, gently curved brows twisting in grief and guilt and _shame_. “I thought you were all…” Her voice _breaks_ , cuts off on a rough, agonized note as her face twists into an expression of raw anguish and profound loss, and for a second it’s _Robin_ in front of Grace, _their_ Robin, their Deputy, their Avenging Angel of Death, their _friend_. Grace’s little sister. Then, just as abruptly as it all appeared, all the life, all the _Robin_ fades away into a moment of perfect blankness. And then, with a little twitch, that perfect smile reappears. “But my prayers… they were all answered. You’re _alive_ , you’re _here_ , and… and Jess…” 

The other woman looks away from her, and Grace feels almost compelled to follow, turning her expression to where Jess is hanging her shaking head, broken sobs wracking her body.

Grace is surprised she isn’t sobbing herself.

“Robin,” the sound of her voice surprises them both, and she can barely force the words out of her mouth under the scrutiny of that sickly perfect face. “What… _happened_ …” her throat seizes, the words – _to you? What did that sick **bastard do**?!_ – choking her as she tries to breathe.

Big green eyes – so familiar, so _wrong_ – swell with tears again, shame making her voice low and pained. “Oh Grace… we were so blind. So… _prideful_.” Her expression flickers, a surge of fear and pain as one hand moves – almost compulsively – to clutch at the fabric under her right collarbone, exactly opposite the place where John marked her as _**Wrath**_. “We nearly…” She trails off, eyes wide and haunted, and – there, again – Grace can see echoes of the Deputy, the woman who had stopped to memorize the face of everyone she couldn’t save, who had curled up when she thought everyone else was asleep and muttered a series of names – Rae-Rae, Virgil, Burke, _Eli_ – over and over to herself. And then Robin’s gone again, melting away as her beautiful face lights up with a desperate, unearthly fervor. “But… but it’s alright. Everything we did… it can be forgiven, Grace – all of it.”

And then, just when Grace thinks the world can’t become any more _wrong_ , those gentle hands clasp her face lovingly again and she leans down to press their foreheads together.

The sob that’s been building in her throat finally breaks free – raw and agonized as it tears through her throat, as she twists and pulls herself free, tears boiling up and spilling down her cheeks.

“Oh!” The girl sounds so _horrified_ by what’s happening. “Don’t cry, Grace, oh please don’t!” A painful sounding _crack_ echoes through the room as she drops to her knees – the forgotten Peggies lunging forward with their own cries of horror at the sound – clutching desperately at Grace, trying to hold her hands, to wipe away her tears, to draw her back to meet her eyes. “You don’t need to be scared, not anymore. You’re _safe_ now, both of you” Robin sounds so damned _terrified_ – and some tiny part of Grace realizes that the younger woman’s never seen this before, never seen the sniper break down, never seen her cry – as she struggles to _fix_ it, to make everything better, even as it’s painfully obvious that she doesn’t _know_ – _can’t_ know? – what’s actually wrong. “The family will take care of you.” She sounds so _desperate_ to help, to comfort her, and it _hurts_ unlike anything Grace’s every felt that even now, in this twisted world gone wrong, this poor girl is still trying to save people. That she still doesn’t even realize _she’s_ the one who needs to be saved. 

“Joseph will take care of you, Grace.” The words – sweet and soft and so full of _love_ – draw her gaze back like someone’s buried hooks under her skin and is pulling on them. Green eyes burn into hers, full of the same mad, all-consuming adoration that had once filled John and Jacob and Faith, and the words that fall from her smiling lips are like a prayer. “He takes care of us all.”

There’s something behind fire in her eyes, something buried so deep Grace wonders if she’s just imagining it, just _hoping_ when she knows it’s pointless. But she stares and stares and can’t shake the feeling, and for a split second – hidden away under Jess’ broken sobs and the cultists worshipful mutters and her own pounding heart – she would swear that she hears a familiar voice _screaming_.

“Mother?” Both of their heads jerk up as a new voice echoes through the air, cutting off whatever was passing between them, and an unfamiliar man in the garb of a Chosen steps through the doorway. The cultist’s voice is soft, gentle, and his eyes are burning with reverence and profound _relief_ as he looks at the young woman kneeling before Grace. “The Father is looking for you.”

They’re still touching, and that’s the only reason Grace is aware of the shudder that passes through the girl at those words. But before she can even think of saying anything those bright green eyes have turned back to her, a soft, bittersweet smile on her face. “I have to go now. But we… we’ll talk again, soon.” Gentle hands brush tears off her face, lingering for a moment over her cheekbones before stealing down to clasp her bound hands. The smile brightens, joy sweeping over her face and into her eyes and through her voice, like a child planning a birthday party. “Maybe you can join us, for a meal or something, some day. And we can talk and,” the words, rushed together in excitement and anticipation, trail off into a lilting giggle, and the hands squeeze hers warmly, “it’ll be wonderful.”

She’s stands, turns to go, and Grace forces every ounce of strength she has into her hands – twisting and clenching and holding the delicate fingers that were so gently entwined with her own, pulling the other woman to an abrupt halt and drawing her gaze – startled, confused, _scared_ – back to Grace.

“ _Robin._ ” The Peggies are moving towards them again, snarling in outrage. Grace doesn’t think about them, doesn’t let her grip loosen, doesn’t release the widening green eyes from her own desperate gaze. She’s tired and worn and sick, she’s been ripped to pieces and broken down, been pumped full of Bliss and beaten until she can barely think straight, but Grace Armstrong is _not_ going to fail her little sister _again_. “Don’t.” She forces all the meaning, all the emotion into her voice that she can, tries to convey her trust and her belief and her support, her promise of protection, that they can _make_ it, pull off the impossible _again,_ _together_. Tries to force her way through the madness and the dreams and the false belief, all the way through to reach _Robin_ and pull her back out to safety and freedom. “Don’t _go_.”

Green eyes widen under her gaze, burning and filling with tears, and the world stops for a second. Then the delicate fingers pull free from her grasp, the bare feet take a step away from her, and it’s like the nukes are falling all over again. 

“I have to, Grace.” The voice is so soft, so gentle, patient and sympathetic – like she’s trying to explain why she can’t join them for drinks after work or something equally inane – and Grace wants to _scream_ – 

“My husband wants me.” 

Everything _stops_.

“He… he _needs_ me.” 

Grace stares up, heart frozen, head shaking back and forth of its own accord. There’s complete silence from the direction of Jess’ chair. Even the Peggies have fallen still, trading their fervently mumbled prayers for awed silence.

And at the center of it all a young woman – gentle and heartbreakingly beautiful, stomach heavy and swollen underneath her pretty blue dress, flowers braided into her red hair – looks at Grace with love shining through her big green eyes and dreamy smile, the picture of perfection marred only by a single, incongruous tear slowly falling down one cheek.

“I’m his Faith.”

For a moment the world is perfectly still.

Then the young woman turns, walks away from Grace and Jess, shepherded out of the room by the adoring, reverent Chosen.

The moment she’s disappeared from sight, Grace lets her head fall and cries.

**Author's Note:**

> _So, eventually, I'll probably get around to writing the obligatory "seven years of hell in the bunker" fic. Until then, however... the aftermath. Whoo-hoo! The title, incidentally, comes from the song "In Our Bedroom After the War" by Stars ("She's gone / She left before you woke"). I often struggle with titles, but it felt like it fit._
> 
> _Until next time, folks, have a lovely day and try not to think about whether or not Joseph would have waited seven or so years to have the **first** child. Bye!_


End file.
